There is power in a lie; directing misguided effort from one aim to another.
There is power in honesty; for it is unexpected, and it defies mistrust.
There is power in the sword; the power to end, to draw a line and say "this is enough".
There is power in faith; the power to draw the attention of the divine to a place, to work miracles of conviction.
There is power in the arcane; the power to do the impossible, to bridge the gap between hope and reality.[Someone else has underlined the whole sentence]
There is power in skill; to excel in an endeavour, to exceed expectations.
There is power in determination; the power to make the most of one's natural talents, to drive them forward, sharp and honed.
There is power in knowledge; the power to know where answers may be found.
There is power in wisdom; the power to look at the world and see its pattern, understand past and predict future.
There is power in ignorance; one is not fettered by past mistakes.
There is power in a smile; to inspire friendship, love, peace.
There is power in a frown; to inspire fear, anger, silence.
There is power in horror; for those weak of will cannot walk a path lined with it, and retain hope.
There is power in evil; for those who transgress all moral values have few restrictions to the methods they use to achieve whatever goal they wish.
There is power in good; because the righteous rarely stand alone, and even when they do, they inspire others to stand again.
Many routes to power then; many more than I have written. It says nothing as to how such is used - power is merely the ability to affect the world, the concept is morally neutral. Yet its use is very much a thing of morals, and how to use it, that is a question is it not? It is easy to dream of power, for good or ill. But it is hard to decide how to use it. The world is not so simple, and the answers not so clear, whatever the goal.
Is there power in Mercy? ...yes.[A single word above the sentence] Is there power in smiling in the face of an enemy, offering a helping hand? Is that single hand ever enough?That is not the question. It is the right thing to do. Do it. Do it with all your heart and all your wit. -All- your heart?[A question between the sentences] Do all you can to show Mercy has Power, and that the Lord on the Rack does more than shed tears.
My Lord's Power is not morally neutral. It is pure, and resolute. He Endures, and through that, he offers hope.
Last edited by kleomenes on Sat Dec 13, 2014 9:52 am, edited 1 time in total.
I remember a cool afternoon in Athkatla, winter's touch as light as it ever is in the south; but cold enough indeed for those who made do on the streets. A sanctuary of Ilmater is rarely truly empty, but there are sometimes periods of quiet, a lull when concerned mothers and injured workers, the people of the day, give way to the intermittent violent victims of the night. I was brushing the floor (how much wisdom I have received with broom in hand!), and Brother Alavar was taking stock of the medicines used during the day.
Brother Alavar was a character. Lean and tanned, a long horse face housing dark eyes and a permanent wry smile, his acerbic humour was a definite shock to me when I first arrived at Athkatla, not least because I was often its target. Yet it was soon evident there was warmth behind such chiding. And a lesson, too; on the duty of Ilmateri to respond to hardship without despair.
The sanctuary door creaked open, and a hooded figure slipped inside. Brother Alavar, his back to the door, called over, deadpan. "Brother Ameris will see you! If he is done setting the Dust Legion to order." At this, I smiled, and looked upon our visitor. I only noticed the man's appearance after a few moments: dirty leathers, and a grubby kerchief covering the bottom two thirds of his face. I did not even notice his burden at first, no package, but rather a young street urchin of five or six. No, it was gaze I met, cold and dead, the eyes of a murderer. And beneath that, poorly hidden now, deep fear and pain for the one he bore in his arms.
"Brother Alavar." The man hissed, statement, plea and command all in one. His eyes never left mine. The boy in his arms whimpered.
Alavar turned at last, and when he did so, for once there was no witty quip. "Set him down, friend." One of the the tables was free. The boy moaned as he was lain on it, tears flowing down his cheeks, and I saw the twisted angle of his knee.
"Sig!" The urchin cried, and the masked man clasped his hand. "Here, Trouble."
"Sig it hurts! Are they going to chop it off? Strawtop said they make their soup out of bad children!" The child sounded horrified. The hooded man perched on the table, twisting so his back was to me. He pulled down his mask - I could not see his face. The voice which came as almost tender. "Nah, won't touch you except to put it right, Trouble. Won't let 'em."
The harshness returned when he spoke to Alavar. "I don't know that one." A thumb jerked back in my direction. "Brother." Alavar said, and I bowed my head and moved to the back storeroom to tidy up. I could still overhear.
"So, Trouble is it? Or is that just the leg? Let me take a look."
A boyish whimper.
Again, tenderness in the voice. "His jokes were even stupider when I was a kid."
A laugh, pained.
"Here drink this, it will make you sleepy. One, two, three...sleep." A click of the fingers. "When you wake up you'll be good as new."
"Sig!" With panic.
"I won't leave."
The voices went silent as Brother Alavar worked.
"He'll be sore, but he should be able to walk when be awakes. A few days not climbing roofs would be best, though."
In response to this, an amused snort, and shuffling as the boy was lifted once more.
"That other priest heard my name."
"Brother Ameris? Don't worry. We are sworn to keep secrets here. Besides, he's from the Forest Kingdom, made of wood. Too simple to make anything of it."
Another amused snort, and boots moved across the floor.
"Sig."
"What?"
"Don't break his dreams, like yours were."
The voice scoffed "He should learn what's what, where he has to live."
"Or you could be what he thinks you are, and make where he is better."
I do not know what wordless looks were shared, but it seems an age before the door creaked again. I am not sure if I saw Sig again. I cannot know for sure how he took Brother Alavar's words.
I think on them now, though. And I think on youth.
Youth is many things: naive, reckless, short-sighted, dramatic, emotional, impatient. Is this you, Ameris?[A questioned above the sentence] It looks upon things simply and often resents wiser counsel. It is right it is tempered by age and experience, and that it learns to live in a world populated by both the brave and the base.
Something is lost though, when a cynical view triumphs. We forget that the innocence of youth is just what we are before we have come into contact with the putrid ills of the world. It is us undiluted and untarnished. Those that carry that innocence forward have a special thing in their hearts. Their lives are unwritten, and they have hope for the future. It is a thing to defy the murk that taints the rest of us. Perhaps that thing should be preserved, even as wisdom is taught, for it is pure life itself.
Among some, even a century old is youth, and yet one can see much horror in a century. . . .
A taste of youthful hope no bad thing to aim for. Safely. Maybe Sig found that? Mayhaps that is a thing in me? Mayhaps a thing to give to others.
If you come out of your shell, if you let it show... maybe it is there.
Last edited by kleomenes on Sat Dec 13, 2014 9:55 am, edited 6 times in total.
*a number of scribblings fill several pages, appearing to be repeated drafts of a song or poem. They culminate in the text below*
And did bound feet in ancient times
Walk within Tethyr’s forests green?
Was the bent form of Ilmater
On Tethyr’s pleasant pastures seen?
And did the countenance divine
Shine forth on our clouded hill?
Was Celestia built here
In Tethyr’s green and pleasant land?
Let it rain
Let it rain
Wash the scales from my eyes
Let it rain
Let it rain
Let me see again...
Bring me my blade of burning gold
Bring me my shield of pure desire
I shall not sleep till the clouds unfold
Bring me my charger hoofed with fire
Let it rain
Let it rain
Tears of blood fall out of the sky
Let it rain
Let it rain
Wash me clean again...
From the frozen waters
The king will rise again
With lions at his side...
I shall not cease from mental fight
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Celestia
In Tethyr’s green and pleasant land
Let it rain
Let it rain
Tears of blood fall out of the sky
Let it rain
Let it rain
Wash me clean again...
See the gleaming spires of the citadel
The king and queen will dwell
In our hearts...
Can Celestia be rebuilt pure here
In this trivial time, in these lands of fear?
In Celestia, where Mercy remains
Walk into the light and dissolve the chains
Celestia...
Here is her secret place
From hence she comes forth on the churches in delight
Here is her cup, filled with its poisons
In these horrid veils
And here, her scarlet veil, woven in pestilence and war
Here is Celestia, bound in chains
In the dense of Beshaba...
*a note is written underneath it*
"First audience received it well. And there will be music! Now to find Hendrick."
The Seminary of Saint Ostus is probably the most learned place in all of Tethyr. Within its halls youths learn their letters, novices learn their doctrine, and books of all kinds are stored and copied. Healing is, in fact, only a small part of what is done there, and I became more and more impressed with the place as I learnt just what a hive of industry and wisdom it was, once I decided to stay. I somewhat archly thought, as an educated nobleman, I would have a place within the dusty libraries and hallowed tomes for my assigned chores, once the morning's lessons in the Ilmateri faith were over. How wrong I was.
"Novice Bathoz needs help with the Garden of Rest." Revered Brother Dancon said, in his papery-thin, dry voice, assigning me to months of tedious, dirty, manual labour.
Whether great or small, my countrymen love gardens. Whether it is the commons, and their joy at the burgeoning, semi-feral flowers they tend on common land, city merchants with their window boxes, or nobles, with cloistered, walled gardens where they take their repast and enjoy their privacy, it is a rare Tethyrian who cares nothing for natural beauty.
But for a son of the Santraeger, noble born, to lift hoe and prune branch? To be a labourer? The annoyance must have been clear on my face, as I was met with a stern look from the Revered Brother, and heard a chuckle from that kind Sister looking on, bless her.
The Garden of Rest was large, but perhaps not as large as one might expect for such a prominent temple complex. Its main purpose was as a place of quiet reflection for the Adorned, for silent thoughts, or gentle talk during the late afternoon and evening. It consisted of a series of planted beds, containing both flowers, and tress to attract seasonal birds, through which meandered a stone path. Some of the plantings were in bloom, both by nature and by magical means, all year round, but most followed the seasonal cycle.
Bathoz, when I met him, was a huge bear of a man. I wonder now if he had some orcish blood in him. He was certainly not a sharp wit, and I understood why he had been a novice so long. Indeed, he seemed content with his life, resolved to be a permanent fixture in those gardens. Back then, his lumbering gait and monosyllabic responses infuriated me, yet he ignored, or did not hear, my snide remarks as every day we diligently performed our laborious duties. I think his silence encouraged them, to my shame.
The duties varied with the changing of the seasons, but I still remember the worst of them. Turning the soil in the beds for planting. Watering the beds in hot seasons. Brushing fallen leaves in autumn. Pruning more untidy growths than I care to remember. Weeding. And the worst, the very worst, scraping the bird droppings from the path before the Adorned came for their rest, so that the garden was presentable.
There was a small section of the garden, though, that was different. A small bed in a corner, which was not planned as the rest had been, rather being set aside for the novices tending the garden to do with what they will. In my resentment, I had nothing to do with it, and Bathoz took up the whole of the small space with his own handiwork. He planted flower bulbs, seemingly at random, much to my internal amusement (even I was not rude enough to mock his "stupidity" so cruelly) as I predicted a chaotic mess of colour, should any of them grow. Every day he would go back to the leavened earth, and look upon what he had done, as if willing green shoots to appear. Every day, I would watch him, shaking my head. Eventually I spoke up, asking him what he expected to see that was different from the day before. He shrugged in response, and grumbled in his barritone.
"Don't know. Maybe different tomorrow."
And so it went on. I was amazed, of course, when in the spring green shoots appeared. Yes, less than the number of bulbs Bathoz had planted, but to his credit there were a surprising amount. Again, each day he would come back to spend a few minutes admiring the shoots, and I would watch him. I asked a new question, eventually: why he was so interested in looking at green shoots, when he could just wait until they bloomed.
"Like seeing the growing."
When the first flowers bloomed, they were indeed a riot of colour, flowers of various shapes and hues side by side. It was certainly no formal arrangement, lending the bed a wild, raucous vivacity that was in sharp contrast to the ordered lines in the rest of the Garden of Rest. Many of the Adorned would wander into the corner and pass comment, very often favourably. Each time that was so, Bathoz beamed proudly, standing straight like he was under military review.
The flowers were still blooming when Revered Brother Dancon came for a review of our duties, his cane clacking on the path as he made his way through the garden in the bright afternoon sun. His crinkled face broke into a smile when he saw Bathoz's flowers, and then turned his gaze to me.
"Novice, what do you think of this year's bloom?"
I looked to the flowers. I looked to the Revered Brother's amiable smile. I looked to Bathoz, and saw the hope on his face. I looked down , and then once more upon the flowers. And I answered, truthfully, that they grew beautifully.
"Just so." he answered with a chuckle. His cane once again sounded on the paving stones as he retired. Yet his voice called back clearly.
"Novice Ameris, you will be to the Scriptorium in a month."
That last month in the Garden of Rest, I offered no snide remarks, and no complaint. I laboured alongside Bathoz, and was glad to. He did not seem to notice. The next year, however, I made sure to visit from time to time, and look upon the tilled earth, green shoots and blooming flowers once more. This he did notice; this made him smile, and that I was glad to see happen. I could repay him in no other way.
Would you nurture a garden with me...?
Last edited by kleomenes on Sat Dec 13, 2014 9:58 am, edited 1 time in total.
It was well into my eighteenth year when I first saw betrayal. That day I drank much, hoping to drown all memory. It was still there though when I was woken, all too early. Summoned to my mother's side.
She was taking her breakfast when the page led me in. Her visage was perfect, despite the early hour. It always was. My head pounded, hammerblow after hammerblow with each heartbeat - a welcome distraction. I had washed, and made myself presentable, rosewater masking the smell of wine, but my suffering must have been clear given the cool look she gave me.
"Maybe you should sit, before you fall." she said, lifting a dainty morsel to her mouth with a fork. Smoked salmon and egg, I could see, with bread. Her favourite, despite its simplicity. I walked over, placing a faint kiss on her proffered cheek, as custom demanded, and sat in my usual place, so I would be between my father and her when he arrived, and opposite my brother. I beckoned over a servant, who filled a cup with fruit juice. I drank readily.
"Did you sleep well, mother?"
"Perfectly fine. I will not ask about you."
I drank deep from the cup again, and held it out to my right for a refill. I waved away the a plate, not ready for food. The servant scurried away.
We sat in silence, the scrape of cutlery on plate the only sound.
Finally, mother set down her fork. Without a word, she clicked her fingers and a maid came forward with a box, which mother took and set down on the table, between us. She opened it. The necklace lay within.
I remembered where I had last seen it, beneath dark eyes, with sweet words. "You didn't have to...""Yet I did."
The voice cut through guilty memories. "I will keep hold of this, so it does not get....lost, again....I will not have Count Sarneh's girl come here to an empty house." She closed the box.
I drank from my cup, hoping my eyes did not reflect my spirit.
More silence. My father and brother did not come.
"Do you know why your brother is my favourite?" Her eyes rested on mine, green, cold. When I did not answer, she continued - or perhaps would have done anyway. "He is less courtly than you. He is too quick to familiarity. He loves the hounds too much, like your father". Her nose crinkled here. "I am told you best him with the sword, and he flinched at his first hanging." She held the box out to the waiting maid, her hand hanging there for a few moments; as the maid's eyes were looking anywhere but at her Lady and the young Lord.
Mother pushed her plate away, and reached for her own cup. Her next words spoke of cold resignation, again her eyes resting upon me. "All those things you have by nature, he can be taught. You, though, cannot be taught, despite what your father says. You will always be base."
My chair broke the silence as it scraped across the floor, too quickly. Untroubled, she offered me her cheek again. Again, lips brushed against it. Custom had to be observed, after all.
"Good day, mother."
Cold.
[One word, written faintly on the page, as if the quill barely touched the paper]
Last edited by kleomenes on Sat Dec 13, 2014 10:03 am, edited 1 time in total.
I tried to write on this before, on the eve of the collision of sin, malice, regret and foolishness. What were my thoughts then? Only a few months ago. I had grown since arriving in Baldur's Gate, learnt much. Yet still, I was a fool. I still am Yes, you are.[Written above the sentence], but with limitations known, one can indeed focus on strengths. I called that past entry Life. This one, I call Choice, because that is what I dwell upon now.
Why do I think of choices? It is because my calling has changed since arriving on the Coast. When I left Athkatla, I was a healer, and a healer alone, barring the errant act that caused my departure - the act a choice, the departure consequent on it. Now, I am a Knight A red dragonknight [Written between the sentences]. (For shame! says my father's ghost. But this is earned). It is my place to bear arms on behalf of the innocent, to keep safe the weak. This involves judgment as well as mercy. For a sharp sword prevents much suffering, when used righteously. Yet that is the thing, is it not. When is such use righteous?
How does one judge the actions of others? How does the righteous man decide to deal death, or not? Many would say "Judge by action." Indeed, this is how many law codes are phrased, by neccessity. This or that act is judged incorrect. This or that act leads to punishment. Such is the way of purest order.
Such was, of course, the way of my father. A man was judged by his actions, and punished accordingly to laws dictated by King and Count. Such thought directed the gaol, the lash, the noose. Is this justice, though? Strict adherence to black and white word?
I think back to that autumn afternoon, riding into Greendell village with a dozen men-at-arms - a small, peaceful place, unused to the clatter of arms, the thud of horses hooves. Meeting the sherrif there, speaking stern words on my father's behalf. Why have you not administered the punishment? The man is still in your gaol. Was my father's missive not clear?
The sherrif's carefully worded response. My Lord, if it please you, there is talk of villagers wanting to ask of mercy for the prisoner. Withholding grain was a thing of desperation for him, they know he had a poor harvest and has a family to feed, they are willing to make up his shortf.... His eyes fixed on the Helmite trinket round my neck, hanging next to the family crest emblazoned on my armour.
The clustered farmers watching the exchange, the frowns on their faces as I interrupted. The law is clear. Twenty lashes, by your hand or mine. My voice ice as I continued. If it is by mine, I will add five for you.
So I did my duty, and reminded the sherrif of his. Punishment was administered. I watched in silence, despite the weeping of wife and children. The law was followed. Then, I left. Carrying a memory, but not guilt. Not immediately, at least.
It is now I think on choice. Our taxes were meant for the upkeep of our duties to the Crown. It was, indeed, a crime to withhold due tithes. Yet, is it not easier for the man in plenty to comply with such a law? He does not have to watch his family starve over winter in doing so. He does not have to weigh hard his own survival and well being against that of his family; or place abstract duty to strangers above that of his flesh and blood.
A wise priestess once told me that there are often no good choices, just least bad ones. How true is that for the urchin on the streets, who steals bread to eat? Or the soldier in war, who must commit brutalities to survive? Or the petty merchant who must turn a blind eye to criminals selling him their wares, ever fearful of the knife pressed in their back should they not comply? Are all these not criminals in the eyes of gods or men?
It is easy for those whose choices are easy to criticise the deeds of others. Yet, in such harsh positions, can we all truly say we would act with the utmost virtue?
Myself, I have been raised since a boy to exemplify many virtues: Duty, prowess, leadership, wisdom, bravery. I may not meet them all. If I do, can I truly be called more virtuous than a commoner who aspires to the same but does not quite make it? My achievements are not my own: birth and wealth play into them. Said commoner though, has perhaps come his entire journey alone.
I am considering, now, that it is not action which should be judged, but choice. One should judge a soul by what path it decides to take given what options are presented. This cannot be the only thing which determines action: no, there is context. There is a need to prevent harm. Yet, life is sacred, however bruised and battered its intent has become. When facing evil, one must ask, how did it get there? And can it come back.[The words have been underlined, twice]
Do you remember? You must remember.
I was the red dragoness, the wine dragon. You were the Emperor. We danced. We met afterwards. And you said...
"I want to know what I have to do.... I want to know how far...I have to go, to bring you back."
I forbade you to speak of it. An hour of respite. An hour without reproach.
I leaned against you, and you let me. We spoke.
[a new page has been inserted, cut to the size of the journal. The writing is akin to that of someone rambling]
You had been angered at people seeing through your mask.
You, like I, had wanted a moment of respite but for a different reason.
You not wanting others to see you indulged for an evening and enjoying yourself.
"Acting the fool" because your duty comes first, and you need to be an example for others.
I asked you, "Is it such a bad thing, to be seen... smiling? laughing?"
To you, it was.
And I told you, that you were wonderful and I meant it.
The way you smiled and laughed, as if there were no heavy burdens on your shoulders...
I want to see that again.I have seen more of it.
You do deserve it. Merriment.
My hour was up, I turned to leave.
You took my arm, looking for the cord.
It was there but you also saw my other choices.
I almost killed you.[There is a large drop of ink after the sentence]
How can you anger me so.
How can you make me want to hurt you so, when I do not want to...
How can you forgive me each time...
And then you told me to not dwell on the things you cannot give me.
To think of what you can try and offer. Which was everything.
And I told you, bitterly, that I could not have everything.
I walked away.
A few days later.
You spoke to me inside my head.
And I had made a choice.
And you came to aid me, to see me through.
You kept your promise.
Last edited by kleomenes on Sat Dec 13, 2014 10:29 am, edited 4 times in total.
[Dried blood is smeared over the page, the words still visible through it]
On Taint
Let me write righteous invective, then. Let me write of how evil is everywhere, and how it grows when unchecked:
In the city, usurers grow fat off the misery of others; footpads prey upon the weak;
In the country, cruel lords squeeze peasants ever harder; narrow minded fools burn guilty and innocent alike in their fear of the unknown;
Among criminals, plots are hatched, influence or coin placed ahead of the safety and dignity of others;
Among the truly wicked, dark pacts are made, souls chained, atrocity committed...for what? Power?
There is not a man who does not nurse some injustice in his heart, however small. The keeping of a coin another dropped by mistake. The harsh word spoken to an excitable son. The malicious gossip spread by fishwives at the harbour.
So a righteous man must be busy, yes? He must be tireless, as wherever he looks, there is duty.
Yet even the righteous man carries the taint. The noble knight, proud, moved quickly to anger at perceived slights. The tireless defender, who in fulfilling his duty to the man, forgets his duty to his own family. The faithful crusader, whose righteousness veers into self righteousness, forgetful of the need to temper all actions with wisdom.
There is evil everywhere we go, because we bring it there. Knowing this, that is how one holds it back.
How well do you hold yours back...?
And knowing this, one also knows the need for Mercy.
I am vile.
[In shaky red letters, as if written in blood]
Last edited by kleomenes on Tue Dec 16, 2014 12:17 am, edited 3 times in total.
Hooves thudded on the cold earth as we picked up pace, finally drawing ahead of the fugitives. The scattered shrubs were thickening, but the treeline ahead was still abrupt, the dark eaves forbidding.
"Ride!" I cried. "Ride now!"
We broke into a gallop, the wind hard in our faces as we pulled far ahead of our quarry; the pennant Suvas carried fluttered high. As we closed with the tree line, arrows began to cut through the air, arcing high at this extreme range: first between us, then one finally struck home, skittering off Isimir's shield, power spent at this range. We were close enough. What they could loose arrows at, they could see. Teach them that the Lions who lair in this valley have claws, son. he had said. I meant to give good lesson.
I spurred Vigilant on, drawing ahead of us as more arrows followed. Raising my short hunting lance high into the air, I skewed my horse to the left, indicating the men should follow. We banked round, slowing to a canter and dressing our line, lances lowering as we turned towards our prey, the mounts being given a momentary respite from the mad chase. More arrows fell amongst us from the hidden archers in the forest. Distance did much to save us, but still one shaft found its way into the rump of Kerrilam's horse. It was all he could do to stay in his saddle, the horse whinnying in pain.
The ragged figures ahead of us were as wild as all their people were, lightly armed with spears, axes and yet more bows. Equipped for stealth, to discharge their mission of rescue, their violence intended to be wrought from the shadows, not on the field of battle. They were so close to salvation, yet now here we stood between them and the safety of the trees. And our hearts were hard.
I raised my lance and cried forth of the wickedness of our enemies as the line trotted forth. "Remember King Errilam! Remember the sons of Count Sosho! Remember the Crimson Ford!" We broke into a canter, and I moved to recent wrongs. "And remember arrows in the dark! Remember the militiamen of Willowdell! Remember their weeping daughters!"
Deadlier arrows began to fly at us now. Our prey had halted their flight, resolved to die in battle, and their arrows flew level, range and our momentum lending them power. One thudded into someone's shield, away to the left. I heard a cry to the right, but I never heard who had been hit. I spurred Vigilant forward, increasing the pace, the clatter of arms and the thunder of hooves meaning my last words were bellowed over the din. "For the King and the People! Show them that we keep the Watch! Show them what it means to face the wrath of the sons of Tethyr!"
The horn sounded to signal the charge; we galloped onwards, Jalamir leading the men to take up the cry. "Sons of Tethyr!" A sight we must have looked, with gleaming arms and proud sigil aloft. Our foes, though, were undaunted, and arrows came thick and fast as we surged forward. One thudded into flesh to my left, and Jhedar's horse reared up, giving out a terrible scream in agony, throwing the rider down before it collapsed itself. Then another arrow found its mark, taking Tiaz high in the shoulder. He flew off his horse in a clatter of armour, the riders behind him deftly parting to surge past. Whether he was alive or dead then, we did not know. More arrows found their mark, but by this time I had pulled ahead, Vigilant's ardour and strength carrying me ahead of the mass.
There was nearly a score of warriors ranged against us. Even after the archery, we had the slight advantage, as well as being mounted and better armed. They might have resisted the first charge if they had trusted in discipline, fighting in close with each other, shoulder to shoulder. Yet they were arrayed as was their people's want, trusting in their natural quickness and prowess - the secret of their advantage during running battles in crag and glade, their fatal flaw on the open field.
And then, lances lowered, we were among them. I had singled out a taller male, with the lean features and sharp ears typical of his kin. He had red hair braided in dreadlocks and tied with feathers and obsidian rings; and hard copper eyes. Unlike his kin, he carried a sword alongside his axe, wielding both together, and the bearing he held seemed to mark him as leader. There is the knifeman. I thought. There is the coward who strikes in the dark. The point of my lance gleamed, yearning for his heart, yet he was not quite the coward I thought him, as he deftly dodged aside, and in a display of unearthly prowess, hewed the shaft asunder as I passed.
My world narrowed to my foes before me as I plunged into their ranks, casting aside broken lance. The next seconds passed in a blur. All around the sounds of battle echoed round, the clash of axe on shield, the cries of riders, and raiders, and horse, the clatter of fallen riders; all dulled by the roar of my own breaths. The wildling leader slashed at Vigilant's flank, trying to go for my leg, opening a painful wound; I nudged the horse round, using its bulk to hammer him back; then my sword was free, sharp and graceful, much like my foes; the enemy champion, dazed, had time to hiss in recognition of its craftsmanship before it took his hand; Vigilant's hooves lashed out to end it; another leapt at me to my left, a snarling female, a battlecry in their foreign tongue echoing out; my sword slashed out from on high, dealing mortal wound, leather cap no defence; another cry of rage from behind, and by the time I turned, Jalamir had lanced a third who had been poised to hurl an axe at my exposed back.
And it was done. We dismounted to finish the enemy wounded, and tend our own injured and fallen. The two captives were all of the enemy that remained untouched: a male and a female, both still thin and worn from their captivity. Yet like all their people, there was a feral beauty about them, a wild nobility. Even bound and beaten, they made the men all around feel like lumpen slabs of meat. That they had some status among their people, that much was clear, despite their savage aspect. Why else risk so much in their rescue, stealing into Willowdell and killing the Sherrif's militia? Spies. We will see them hang. Father had said, when he sent me out on this mission of vengeance. Still, to this day, I do not know truly what seeds gave birth to these events.
Then we saw them. Jhedar, limping, had survived being unhorsed, and had gone to help Tiaz during the battle. Yet now he staggered back to our lines, as arrows fell around him. Tiaz lay unmoving, a number of shafts sticking out of his torso. A single archer from the tree line had left her sanctuary, just a little way, coming close enough to bring those who fell during the charge under her bow. Even as we watched, and Jalamir cried for the men to lock shields, an arrow found its mark on Jhedar, and another, and another, and he fell, crawling a few paces before lying still.
Cold fury gripped my heart, bloody sword still in hand. "Bring them." I said. The captives were pushed to their knees before me. "Do you speak the common tongue?" I snarled. No answer. The female spat in my face. "No matter. Your screams will pass the message well enough."
They did scream. So did that vengeful archer, in the distance, a cry of sorrow and rage. Was it one day answered in the blood of my own kin? It was. Dear Brother, forgive me.[The word written between the lines, clearly added later] Or, like so much of the furious retribution this world breeds, did it find more innocent prey?
Ruthless.
[One word, written at the end of the entry]
Last edited by kleomenes on Fri Jan 29, 2016 10:31 am, edited 3 times in total.
It was a cold winter morning; as cold, that is, as Tethyr gets. Frost still tickled the blades of grass, and the horses tethered behind each party exhaled great gouts of steam. All told, we were less than a dozen each, come to this remote country track a good five miles outside of Ithmong. A place far from the Duke's disapproving gaze.
They stood under their banner, the sigil of Count Sarneh in stark silver upon the green background, a trio of leaping dolphins. Each one a fat merchant ship. my father had said when he showed me the Count's seal upon the letter of proposal. A new family, yes, but rich off Waterdeep trade. A good match, on that account. Barely a hundred years of history, yet they looked the part, with men at arms in gleaming mail and green surcoats. Silver filigree wound its way round the Count's gauntlets and over his breastplate, the helm under his arm similarly ornate. This brilliance was matched in his son's attire. Lhotrik Sarneh was clad in finely wrought war plate, silver lining its edges, the sigil of his house bright on his breast. The helm under his arm was likewise ornate, pointed visor marked with exquisite silver dolphins on each cheek. His handsome face wore an insouciant smile, the blue eyes beneath his curled, sandy hair filled with contempt as he surveyed those opposite him. The image of perfection was only marred by the red mark on his cheek, the seed of today's events.
Our party was much less ostentatious. While our standard, the golden lionhead on blue, flew proud, our men-at-arms almost looked understated in their sturdy, dark chain and blue painted shields, well maintained but not fine. Here and there were the signs of repair, weapons and armour kept in use as long as possible. My father's armour was grand, however, a dark suit of plate with gold lining, lighter than most, a fusion of the styles of Calimsham and Tethyr. It had been polished, but armour which has seen the fury of battle can never gleam as it once did. He stood with a hand resting on the pommel of his sword Gatekeeper, a humble weapon compared to the gleaming steel at Count Sarneh's side, and even compared to the straight bladed longsword Lhotrik was affixing to his swordbelt with the aid of a page. Yet, it was a blade said to have spilled blood during the Burning of Shoonach, carried by one of those who fought beside the first Count Santraeger before he was ennobled. A blade of tradition and duty, not of wealth.
My own attire had been well cleaned and prepared over the night. My suit of warplate shone, but only through the efforts of servants. No gold or silver adorned it, and in fact on close inspection a dent or two could be seen, too small to warrant urgent repair. Still, I too wore our family sigil on my breast, along with a token of the Watcher, and the same sigil was on my helmet. At my side lay the longsword Triumph, elven-crafted, graceful; a more deadly weapon than it appeared, born by the heirs to Count Santraeger ever since our first victory at the King's behest during the Elf-strife.
My father summoned a servant and had a cup of watered wine filled. The only sign of tension. Jalamir came to my side as I made final adjustments to my gauntlet. "I hear he's quick, my Lord. Unbeaten." I nodded. "He's not seen battle, but they bought good trainers with all that gold." I nodded again and brought my visor down.
"Not the best, though. We have that one." said my father. "So no excuses, Ameris." A smirk on his lips. Jalamir bowed his head at the compliment.
I stepped forward, footsteps crunching on the hard ground. Lhotrik did to. His voice broke the silence. "There's still time for you to ride back north with what's left of your honour. Go fight your forest savages! I care not. I'll forgive the blow if you apologise."
In response, I drew my sword. He lowered his visor, drew his blade, and we began.
The night before we had attended the Duke's Winter Ball, a place for alliances to be forged and affirmed. We were due to discuss the last details of the marriage alliance with Count Sarneh, a quiet conversation amid refined revelry and courtly dancing, with near all the nobles of the Duchy of Ithmong gathered together to mark the new year. We spied them shortly after they arrived, Count Sarneh with his curls of grey, and Lhotrik in a fine doublet, and beside them the Count's eldest daughter Perenda Sarneh. She wore in a pale green dress, cut to Zazesspur's latest fashion, adorned in a silver necklace and ash-blonde hair coiffured in an elaborate style. My fiancee, by arrangement. This was to be our third and final meeting before the marriage.
Oddly, though, the Count did not make approach to us, as is custom. At first we thought it some mistake, or oversight. But as minutes gave way to the hour, my father's mood worsened and we went over. We both bowed, and my father made introduction.
"Count Sarneh, well met. This evening finds you warm and well I hope?"
"Oh. Count Santraeger, is it? I did not think you would have come all this way." he replied. His face was completely even, neutral, yet his son's smirk showed the insult intended. My own gaze looked between all three. Perenda looked away.
My father pressed on. Direct, as was his manner. "We came to see you, and finalise arrangements for the wedding. Would it be better to discuss..."
Count Sarneh interrupted. "I meant to write to you about that. My daughter is being wed elsewhere, now. Count Wendomm, out of Zazesspur. Perhaps you have heard of the family? Ancient, like yours, but also wealthy, and favoured of the King. A better match, I am sure you will agree."
My father's cheeks flushed at the insult, his voice low with anger. "Word was given. We will not forget."
"But we will!" replied Lhotrik on behalf of his father, laughter in his voice. Perenda, despite her attempts to look as though she was disinterested in the conversation, giggled at that.
My hand lashed out, backhanding Count Sarneh's son and spilling him onto his back, his glass shattering on the ground, the wine spreading like blood across the marble floor. The gentle music came to a jagged end, the room fell silent in shock, before filling with hushed, murmured speculation.
"I will have an apology from you!" Lhotrik exclaimed, voice high pitched in his anger, rubbing his cheek.
"You are welcome to come looking for one." I snarled, voice laced with violence.
Already the Duke had stood from his seat, shouting for order, and for our argument to end.
"Tomorrow, then." my father said, gaze locked on Count Sarneh.
"Tomorrow." Count Sarneh replied. He had blanched only a little in shock. Unlike his daughter, her eyes wide. She had not seen before the manners of those whose traditions were formed far from the watchful gaze of the throne.
He was quick. His sword was heavier than mine, but he moved just as fast, practiced well in his technique. Parry and feint, parry and feint. The onlookers were silent, watching every move, the honour of two noble houses at stake. Our armour clanked and rattled as we broke off and circled each other, seeking advantage by footwork. Soon we were both breathless, and I felt sweat on my brow despite the cold air outside my armour. The thing before me was a faceless metal figure, yet when I caught glance of the dolphin sigil it only stoked my anger further.
We came together again, swords shimmering in the morning sun as it poked through the cloud. He was even quicker this time, it seems. I erred, my blade turned aside by his heavier one. I recoiled, but still he caught a glancing blow on the side of my helmet as I staggered back. A palpable hit to him. A huff of pleasure arose from within his helm, a wordless gloat.
I surged forward on wings of fiery rage. We clashed together, swords locked on high, both grunting with effort. An impasse of swordsmanship, perhaps, until I brought my head against his, helms clanging together, dazing him. He squawked in surprise, reeling back, our swords breaking apart. I hammered the pommel of my sword into the side of his helm, stunning him further. Again and again, clang, clang, a deep dent left where my blows struck. Rage providing where skill did not; a victory given birth on brutal fields of battle, not in the training hall.
My other hand gripping his swordarm tight, as he stumbled. It was all the opening I needed. With a cry of fury, I brought the pommel down again, this time with all my weight behind it, onto his trapped arm, breaking elbow with a crunch. His blade fell from nerveless fingers, and he screamed in agony, sprawling back into the dirt.
I stood over him, sword pointed at his chest, a booted foot grinding broken arm into the cold earth. "Enough!" he gasped through the pain, and he tore off his helm with his good hand. "I yield, I yield!"
A smile of victory on his lips, my father stood forward, his eyes meeting Count Sarneh's with a look of triumph.
Lhotrik gasped out his apology. "Count Santraeger, I recant my ill manners, and those of my father. Yours is the honour."
His eyes moved back to me. "Release me."
Yet, the fury had not cooled, not at all. "It is not enough." I hissed, and my sword moved to his face, slicing down just a little way, just to a little depth. He screamed, body convulsing as I took his eye, while the roadside echoed to the sounds of swords being drawn on both sides.
"Savages! Damned savages!" cried Count Sarneh, as his men rallied round him, advancing to stand over the fallen, weeping Lord. I retreated, sword held out defensively, back to the safety of my father's men. It did not come to violence though, already the thunder of hooves could be heard, the Duke's men approaching to put a stop to any violence.
Even as they came into view, we were mounting up, dispersing, leaving Count Sarneh the field and his mutilated son. We rode from there north, back home, followed by letters of outrage from the Duke. We would not be welcome in his court again, he said. We were better staying alongsidethe barbarians in the trees, mad dogs to keep them at bay. My father laughed when he read that, when the Duke's messenger caught us by the banks of the Sulduskoon and handed over the sealed letter. He looked up at me, still chuckling.
"You have your father's claws, perhaps, but your mother's will to use them."
He gestured to the letter. "See how they would have us do our duty anyway, honour or no. As if we would ever not. Well, I am happier having vengeance than the respect of merchant counts."
He folded the letter.
"Against our enemies, duty and vengeance are often the same thing. I need not tell you that though, I think."
Caged. A lock of duty and faith, tied tight by red cord. Does He want me to cut it? Does He want me to be free? Yet a lion is a cruel beast, when roused. Merciless. Such is what must be tamed if duty is to be done. I fear failure in this.
I took it, I -needed- it.
I cherished it.
But... you managed to tame the beast inside you?
Last edited by kleomenes on Tue Dec 16, 2014 12:24 am, edited 3 times in total.
I dream of an old hound, muzzle grey, lying still by the fire. I ask why he will never chase hares and boys on the meadow again. He was old, they say, he had his time.
I dream of an old man, his last cup forgotten by his bedside, his cane forever still, gentle face withered and empty, flesh merely a mask over the skull. My father, by the bed, removing his sword belt, and the graceful weapon at his side, holding it out to my child's hands. Yours now, when you are old enough.
I dream of a crisp morning, overcast. A wicked black tree ahead, heavy with morbid fruit; dead eyes, swollen tongues, creaking as they hang in the wind. The silence the sound of a harsh justice done. My father looms at my side, his hand on my shoulder.
The morning becomes a night, lit by raging fires; the fires of burning hovels, the fires of burning rage. Raise them up! I shout, mighty steed impatient below me. Lift them on high, those who would place themselves above their rightful lords! Men in blue and gold, with skulls for faces, drag forth a defiant pair. And more fruit hang.
I stagger on into a frozen wood. All around, ropes sway in the breeze, and that upon them. A deathly silence, all around. Under each tree, yet more figures, young and old, emaciated, dead, a blanket of killing snow lying across each corpse. Bread... a whisper comes on the wind. A haughty woman at my side, picking her way through the horror daintily. They should think of such before raising hand against us.
Now I dream of a windswept heath, stained in blood. Bodies lie upon it as my horse canters through, farmers and villagers and bandits, each bearing the marks of the sword and lance. Some to the fore, honourable wounds. Some to the rear. Some armed with arrow and spear, some with pitchfork, some with nothing at all. All struck from on high. Blood drips from the fine elven blade in my hand. Gore covers my armour, stains the grey hide of my mount.
I come to a circle of elven bodies, around which a circle of men stand, again with skull faces. Their swords are drawn, the lion-head sigil bright on their shields. I dismount, and walk amid the carnage they have wrought, into the centre where two proud elves kneel. You are locusts. When will you have taken enough? they hiss. When you are dust! I snarl in return.
I ride, hard and fast, lance hungry for another heart. A bright light shines down, blinding me, as my steed whinnies in agony and falls with a thud. I feel its life leave as its weight bears me down, ever down, into the bloody earth.
The dream takes me on, to a great city on a hot summer's day. A market square, busy and bustling. All around me there walk the mass of humanity, voices raised high in hopeful endeavour. Golden coins change hands. Then, a cloud of ash, stinking of the charnel pit, washes over them all. They cough, they sicken, they beg for mercy. I grasp a young child, nearby, holding the boy close to me. Mercy my Lord! Give them mercy! Yet they fall, one by one, each staring at me with accusing eyes as their death rattles sound. My tears fall on the child, yet he looks at me only with horror.
I dream now of a flame gutted castle, heavy rains soaking the charred timbers. I walk the familiar path towards the splintered gates, shattered swords and spears, fallen men and horses all giving evidence to savage violence. Hanging from the gatehouse are three figures in blue and gold, two male, one female, each with a lion's head. I fall to my knees, feeling nothing and everything.
Sword in my hand again. So bright! In the name of Ilmater the wise, the merciful, the enduring, I judge you all! I cry, and plunge into battle against a mass of foes. Here a bandit, there a bugbear, here a hill giant, there a duergar. Each cries out in its own tongue as sword takes life. Each wishes another minute, another second. I deny it.
Ahead of me a circle of warriors, surrounded by the legions of the dead. I see them all, Brothers and Sisters. Alexander, Katarina, Elric, Cecilia, Ronin, Gaervin, Borbag, Beric, Elril. Eldarian fights by their side. Eliphas cries out. Hold! and they do, but still, they die. A flaming fist stands beside me, eyes bright behind a faceless helm, looming over me. Hope has died. he says, bitter, leaving me.
I plunge into mists, all around me a woman's voice. Brother! she cries. Layana? Brother! she cries. Louise? There are tears in her voice, and loss, terrible loss. I clutch my holy symbol, yet the only word that comes to mind is Endure - it gives back nothing.
Suddenly I am in a forest clearing, a slow stream running through it. Moonlight dances over water, lays a silver sheen on grass and branch and leaf. She is there. No sister, this. She wears gold and blue, a dress fit for the Court in Ithmong, or even that of the king. My colours. Wordlessly I approach, take her in my arms. A moment of warmth, yet even as our lips touch I feel the warmth fade. She sags in my embrace, gone, and the flesh rolls off her body. Only bones I hold, until even they dissolve into dust, falling through my empty hands.
What happened...?
[Scribbled at the bottom]
Last edited by kleomenes on Tue Dec 16, 2014 12:25 am, edited 1 time in total.
A few brief thoughts, then, before resolute action. I would not want to call this fear; perhaps it is. I am going to take a stand, and I am going to try and have others stand with me. Lead, one might say; I fear that. In the past, when I led, misery and suffering were the harvest. I was an agent of brutal order, at the head of sharp spears and swords; compassion girded in steel, but joyous pride, well, that was out in the open. Such thoughts are what has kept me silent for so long. A failure in duty, perhaps. A failure to the obligations I owe to the Lord on the Rack. So I will look past such doubts today. They can remain in history.
I have offered prayers to the Triad, and I have taken counsel with many wise minds, and yet still the path ahead remains dim. It is the lot of the righteous man to trust in his gods, and many voices will be gathered today. I hope they are heard. I hope our gods listen.
Yet for me, this effort is not just about prayers round a shrine, or indeed the cleansing of a tainted land. Rather, it is a statement of resolve, and a reminder to unity of action. A fusion of varied ideals and faiths to one endeavour, so that when the correct course is finally clear, many are the hands that are set to purpose. And a declaration that we will not yield to despair.
I have words ready. They are not flowered, set to slant hearts with half truths. Rather, I mean to remind all of cold facts. Of what occurred, and why. And I mean to remind all that healing is done with faith and resolve, not with swords. But also, that it is a battle we head into, even if it is one of faith.
I wonder who will come. Many have spoken of lament for the fate of Triel, if even a portion of them can attend, we will be formidable in strength.
Sister Brenda. Her heart has bled for this, the tale of suffering having touched her even as her understanding of the context was imperfect, and her impassioned words have set much in motion. I hold some guilt for having hidden behind her, as this burden is heavy for such small shoulders; this task one that echoes further than she realises. I am glad I set Brother Shy'Nar to her side, she needs protectors.
Brother Ronin. What better omen can we have other than Ronin's return from his curse. He who was born in Triel, who laments its loss with such stoic dignity, whose resolve in no small way inspired both Sister Brenda and myself, who better to stand watch over the shrine? I thank my Lord for bringing him back to us at this crucial time.
Sister Cecilia. I know she will stand watch, even if current affliction renders her absent from prayers. I welcome this. Cecilia has grown so much in the time I have known her; yes, she can err, yet her purity still shines bright, her oaths true. She reminds me that there are those who keep their word and their resolve, and who never surrender, it fills me with hope.
Ivan will be with us. Awkward words and differing ideals often render him and I inscrutable to each other; my anger over Nea has often clouded my judgment. Yet, I have seen him act well in many things. He is a druid, and such is his concern. We will never be of like mind, but I can see that in things such as the cleansing of Triel, we can find much common ground and build trust for times when we can cooperate. Thanks to his advice I can hope for other servants of nature to attend, now that our efforts are cast to something all can pray for, the return of Chauntea to Triel and subsequently the healing of the taint.
I am fresh from a convocation of priests, and either Tolan or Neschera will come, bringing words of the Dawn. We are of like mind and like intent, and ponder proper discharge of our duties of healing. Tolan's resolve is strong, and I am glad to see his faith burn hot again, now set to purpose. I am glad he stands with me. Yes, he has a streak of Lathanderite pride (I know your god preaches against such Neschera, but think...why does he have to!), but his faith is as the Summer's heat, fierce; and it burns away my doubt.
And alike with Neschera, the unconquered sun, the bright dawn that melts the frosts of winter and brings forth the green shoots of spring; With a few simple words she saved my soul. I write this because it is true, yet those who have heard her before would know the saving of souls to be a daily duty for this one; the miracle is she did such from her sick bed, still half broken by the Maiden's whip. Unconquered indeed. In her I see the wisdom of the world as I would have it be. Perhaps in me, she sees the wisdom of the world that I think is. A conceit I shall allow myself for the purpose of this journal.
Who else may come? I know Candlekeep will have its eyes there. Ayla and Telia both have promised to come; There is only so much they can do and keep their oaths, yet both provided warm counsel in preparation of this effort.
Ayla, I had not thought to see her torn between oath and inclination as I have ever been; it is a strange sight. It is a welcome one, it shows how she now finds a place, one where her words will find full flowering. I am glad of it, even as I would wish she could stand with our effort fully. She will do what she can; we come at life from differing directions, but where we meet, there is a firmness. Her friendship is true; I do not regret having caught her eye, despite what I once said.
And Telia, I know her heart still weeps for what she saw when Triel fell; I know she would have seen that day never occur. I think of the actress I met, a creature of art and ambition, but dare I say flighty; I think now of a Seeker of Candlekeep, cleaving to oaths; a thing true to what I see her to be.[The words have been struck through by someone else, a different handwriting is squeezed in between sentences]A LIE. Again I am inspired by others shouldering duty and purpose, and am reminded I must do the same. And what price can I place on what she has given me? She has witnessed every step to life I have taken on this coast, even if she has not known why; and always she has offered me the chance to set aside burden and just be myself. I still hold it as a thing of shame I have asked for her confidence, but not given her my own.I cannot fault you for not giving it can I? When I kept so much from you.
I hope to see Laitae as well; I know she took the fall of Triel hard, yet no matter what people say I do not see clearly how we might have done better. The wisdom of hindsight is no real wisdom. Laitae is a woman of great learning, and the kindest hearts. She's seen much I have not, done much I will not. She has taught me, patiently, much about myself; she has taught me to look beyond my past prejudices (an elf not wearing rags!), and define my own values through the lens of my faith. I'd welcome her here today.
Others? I have spoken to many on this, and so has Sister Brenda, and others who now stand with us have spread the word further. I hope, in particular, to see the Silver Rose attend. There have been differences between them and I; I've not been able to confide truly in a Rose Knight since Lazarus passed. Yet Cecilia has perhaps been the woman of the hour, able to do that which I have not; perhaps for her, they will attend. I would welcome it. On this we can cooperate, I hope. And if the sword is needed, I know they will be resolute.
Who else might I hope to see? Who else might I wish to join this effort? There are many whose attendance is impossible, for many reasons. I will list them though, these people whose opinions matter to me; who are the reasons I do what I can.
My Sisters in faith; Louise, Layana, Catherine. Family keeps all three busy. Yet for each of them there is a duty to the fore aswell, a duty that takes them from here. And each has formed me: Louise's gentle wisdom, always with strong shoulders, a guide through dark forests, never speaking of easy answers, such is not our Lord's way; Layana, the gentlest of hearts, the one who saw my hopes first, my sister in the greatest endeavour (one I will always thank her for); Catherine, with her quiet strength, her faith pure and resolved in the face of loss, an anchor in stormy seas.
Thedran. Our words to each other have grown harsh, resolutely. I do not know if it can be mended; I cannot speak other than I do, I know well what I am and what he would have me be. They are not the same thing. Yet, his words are a large reason why I act now, and I will not deny that to those who ask. I hope that the path of time will see us to an accommodation. We have like goals.
Brothers of the Order; we are stretched, and so few will be able to lend their blades. Would that we could muster in our full strength, at least this once; failing that, would that Alexander and Katarina were here. Together, it felt we could do anything, as if the swords in our hands and the light in our hearts shone with the very light of the Triad. Although, it was always me getting them into trouble. One day we shall join the fight together again!
Other friends; I would see my shadow by my side, or not see her, as my case may be! Nea, a surprising comrade. A creature of pure chaos, one might say, until one pressed her on values. A true friend, though. I would trust her with my life, and have, many times. Mae, ha! No chance she will come, I already asked. I'd want her to, though. I want to dispel the ghosts of the past, and move towards friendship with the woman that is; but as always I insist on dragging people on the path I've already trod. Such is my duty. Captain Maelir, sharp of wit, light of tongue, swift of sword, a man of nautical honour, a man of even temper and a deeper understanding than one first thinks. A friend, indeed. Tamara, this would be no place for her, but nor were the siegelines outside the temple of Bhaal. Still, she served, and lifted hearts. Not now though, not with child. Let her be a reminder why our deeds are necessary.
Eldarian; wise beyond his years, gracious and patient, yet resolute and dutiful. I look upon him and see what I would pray my Brother Errilar would have been but for wicked counsel. To have Eldarian my ally today would have been a welcome thing; a risen phoenix indeed, breaking free of his shackles, as he has helped ease my own bonds, and remind me to live even as I do my duty. And I would know if I faltered, another would raise the banner. He `a brother.
There is another I would wish was here, yet cannot be. Death holds him, and my reason cannot call that death an injustice, even as my heart bleeds for it. My father, I'd see him here, to watch his son speak and act, and to know the words we shared when we last met were no lie. "You tear up every sapling. For you, there can be only one tree in the forest. But do that and you have no forest, you have a desert. Its when all grow together that the land prospers. That is when Tethyr is strong." I still remember the look on his face, seated in the great hall, servants and men at arms round about, worried faces as they looked between their lord and the grey-clad priest who'd been his son. I still remember his words, naming me fool, weak, oathbreaker. I still see his denial of the wisdom of the Broken God. A peasant's god. I would want him here, now, to see you can build with words what no sword and shackle can manage; a common purpose.
Lastly. My lady. Can I call her that? For today, yes. I asked for her favour in jest; explained what it meant in courtly tales, again in jest; it was given, perhaps also in jest. I'll take it though, and wear it, all the same. If she came, my sword would be sharp. If she came, my voice would be clear. If she came, my heart would burn with resolve. She has forged me into the man I am today, because I have seen in her the truth of all my hopes, and the truth of the teachings of the Broken God. Even as I healed, I have been healed; did she but know it. I think she does, even as she calls me fool. Yet it was she who named me for what I must be as Priest of Ilmater; a healer.
And this is the bitter thing I must swallow today. As it stands, she will never stand by me in such times. She will never be at my side. The world that would allow such has not yet been built; with true ideals fettered by pragmatism and true faith fettered by fear. Even the righteous find themselves bound by history, or fear of failure. Even the goodly cannot understand that even the products of rotten existence can grow into more. My Lord does, though. And I love him for it.
I am sorry.
You know it hurt.
[A few words, followed by ramblings]
Why.
Did you not stay away.
I told you to stay away...
I kept asking myself.
Should I have revealed myself.
Done more, tried more...
Would it have mattered?
You would still have marched.
Why.
Maybe I know why now.
Stubbornness.
////posted now, but was written IC before the Triel meeting on Saturday
Last edited by kleomenes on Tue Dec 16, 2014 12:33 am, edited 1 time in total.
The cloying weariness in my new, reborn bones reminds me I am alive.
The churning of my stomach as this ship rolls its way through choppy waters reminds me I am alive.
The uncertainty that claws at my soul, impelling me to write, reminds me I am alive.
The gratitude I feel when a cat wanders so very considerately within my walls reminds me I am alive.
The wisdom of a priestess more learned than I, purer in her faith than I could ever hope to be, reminds me I am alive.
The bittersweet vision of ice melting reminds me I am alive.
The discomfort at awkward confession, and guilt at its limit, reminds me I am alive.
The thanks due when a watcher maintains a stoic vigil reminds me I am alive.
The continuing resolve of an unusual comrade reminds me I am alive.
The condolences of those who visit, those close and distant, remind me I am alive.
The relief at hearing of the Dawn shining warmly again reminds me I am alive.
The worry for a lost Brother, the bitterness it breeds, reminds me I am alive.
The chill which clutches at my heart, to see the marks left upon a Sister, reminds me I am alive. So does the resolved duty to remove them.
Simple words on the page, yet a knife cutting deep, speaking of true bonds at the moment they are savagely severed. They remind me I am alive.
The sound of quill on page imagined again and again, aside the sounds of anguish; set against the silence as my own words spill forth. This reminds me I am alive.
I hold this bloodied rack in my hand. I hear the word I spoke so often. "Endure." It is just a word. It echoes, but in a dusty tomb, down with the souls of my ancestors, and maybe my victims. I cannot find the words of faith. They are said, but I cannot find them. Where I once saw a field of flowers, I see only sand. I have lost something. Or something is broken; Dead. Yet, I am well groomed at cloaking such emptiness in duty, and there is much to do.
But first this. I cannot deny this task. I cannot deny how I feel my own spirit, burning fierce, welling up out of a grey, voiceless desert. Stripped perhaps of pious musings; stripped of diffuse purpose; stripped even of obligation. I do not know what rises, and I fear it. But it is alive, this much I know.
Let it be chained later. For now, it is a beacon in the dark, to warn me of the reefs ahead.
You endured.
[The two words are written boldly, as if they are important]
[The words which follow look like ramblings]
I am sorry.
I know I hurt you.
It broke me. So many times.
Pretending.
Weeping over your death.
More tears as you were brought back.
I am sorry.
I could not face you looking at me with such warmth with all I had done and have you wipe away my tears when I deserved the pain I felt.
Last edited by kleomenes on Tue Dec 16, 2014 12:40 am, edited 1 time in total.
The chill enters the bones. It is more than snow and ice. Deeper. A killing frost. I cloak myself in my Lord's defiance. That answers, at least, when my blood is hot.
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Many ledges. Many bridges of rock. Strange, all an accident of nature? There are crystals everywhere, as cold as the rest.
And ice cloaked beasts, that stroke with all their frozen might. My Lord guides my arm in such extremity. I can hear him then.
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A structure. Buried. But not natural, made. There is some peace in this corner of the cavern, and fresh water. It is chill still, though. Lifeless. I can make use of it as a safe haven, perhaps
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Another structure, intact pillars and chill water. Beyond, I cannot say...a tomb? It seems undisturbed. I will not be the first until I have exhausted all options.
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Another tomb, or rather a stone container. I could not investigate. Ice beasts drove me back, winged creatures with the magic of chill. I rest here now, to recuperate. I endure, and will try again.
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False footing renders progress slow and painful. With these chasms, dangerous. My eyes are too dull for this.
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Focus. Endure. Think. Write. Remember where you cannot be spared.
ENDURE.
[The word is written in bold letters, followed by a smaller word at the very bottom of the page]
Poetic.
Last edited by kleomenes on Tue Dec 16, 2014 12:46 am, edited 1 time in total.
I could see it; it was not transparent, not salt-stained sadness.
I perhaps missed it at first; it was not bright a crimson; it did not speak of a furious, sacrificial pain.
A flickering torch did not dispel the shadow, though. There it was, black ink, preserved where it had been spilt. This was the substance of thought, the mind and not the body. A treasured thing for both of them.
Dropped by mistake? Or was it a wordless letter? A message either way, along with the silence.
I knelt. I removed my gauntlet. The black sheen chill and smooth to the touch. As cold as the grave, in fact. As black as the night. It had the aspect of a final thing.
The ice melted against my skin; my skin chilled against the ice. The black stuff smeared my palm, covered my fingertips.
I took this message and recorded it. A memory kept, even as duty lies before; even as I return to try break the silence, defiant.
I had offered a blade indeed. I thought hilt first; perhaps in truth double sided. And that was a sin. Yet I am cut all the same.
*Below there lies a smear of ink, made by three or four clumsy fingers.*
Would you tell me, if I asked?
[Under the smear of ink, a careful sentence; the quill barely having touched the page. The words are still faintly visible]
Last edited by kleomenes on Tue Dec 16, 2014 12:51 am, edited 1 time in total.
*a series of crossed out and scribbled rough drafts end up in this neatly written text*
The last time I came to this arena I gave a speech against the actions of the Zhentarim. A day later I was dead, hanging from the gate of Darkhold. Evidently my speechwriting leaves something to be desired.
Cecilia of the Radiant Heart, Sister Brenda, and myself all suffered an ill fate, indeed final fate, but for the grace of the Broken God and the Morninglord. It was earnest hearts and minds which lifted up appeal to the Gods, though; both with tireless effort and ardent prayer; now that we are able, we would like to thank those hearts and minds which we owe, publicly. There are many who would rather stay unmentioned, and I will not break that faith. Know that every rumour one hears of a concern expressed, every patient visit one receives, every thoughtful message by letter or sending, they all boost the heart and render it that bit easier to persevere.
I have some personal thanks to make, and to those I leave no such secrecy. I thank firstly Brother Marcus of Ilmater and Morninglord Neschera of Lathander, whose priestly deeds brought Cecilia and I back to life. The words used were beautiful, and I thank also Varra Pegason for the melodic prayers she used for Cecilia. It is an honour to be heralded back into life with such art.
I thank the Morninglord Tolan for tireless activity to see us returned. I thank the brothers of the Order of the Radiant Heart for their concern, regard, and tireless efforts of wordplay. I thank the Sisters of Ilmater in the sanctuary, who did not only their duty, but mine, in my absence. Although I suspect I shall be doing double shifts in the infirmary for a while! And now, I also have to thank Herran Hymn, director of the White Mask Theatre for dedicating this evening to Triel.
I must thank Cecilia herself, for having been such an inspiration, in seeing her return to duty I have been inspired to do the same. We stand firm in our faith to the Triad, Sister, enduring. I am honoured to serve at your side.
I must thank the dawnknight Eldarian, a brother to me, and one who has shown me many times that even in the darkest moments, there is a dawn coming. Hope never dies, and he is proof of that.
And I thank as well Telia Navra, assistant director of the White Mask Theatre. There are none on the coast who have known me as long as she has, and her friendship has always been a constant; water on dusty ground, seeing me grow. At every point of stress, every period of strife, she has been there to give counsel, a bulwark against despair. So, thank-you, Telia!You thanked me for watching you die while I did nothing.
With the thank-you’s done, I would beg just a few moment’s more of your time. I have had much time to think over the past ten-day or so. I have been thinking about the wide range of people who came to visit Cecilia and myself when we were returned, and the concern I have seen expressed everywhere. The desire to soothe suffering and heal, expressed by so many. The only common factors between them all – life, and compassion.
At heart, we all want to help one another, people are like that. We all want to live by each other’s happiness, not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another; even those who hate wish for it to end, one way or the other. To speak to a theme, we all love.
And there is no need to hate. Faerun is wide and rich, there is room for everyone. It can provide for everyone. The way of life can be that we each choose, each of us free. It can be a thing of peace and cooperation, where differences are cherished and souls lift themselves up to shared happiness. Where hope endures and where we are willing to look on each other as individuals worthy of respect. Where altruistic ideals flower in our hearts.
The way offered by the Zhentarim is a way of greed: hunger for wealth, ambition for power. Greed poisons men’s souls and drives fissures between those who should be brothers; it marches us ever onwards into misery and bloodshed – building blocks for walls of fear. It discards altruism, cladding the soul in steel, making it a pragmatic thing. A thing that thinks only of necessities.
To those who look upon the rise of Darkhold, and see the hand of the Black Network in deeds most foul, who see no end to their victories and no way of opposing them, I say there is. And it is in these three words. "They are wrong"
The violence my Sisters and I suffered was simply an expression of bitterness from men who fear the truth: that the hate of men will pass and tyrants will die. That those who seize power lose it so long as there are those who stand and say “They are wrong”. So long as there are such, freedom will never perish, and the chains will be but an illusion.
I have some words I would say to the Black Network. A letter of love, one could say. I shall write to them and thank them for their accommodation, and perhaps include in this letter the following words.
Remember you were infants once, innocent, sinless. Remember you once cried for milk and to have your swaddling clothes changed; just like all those you make suffer. Remember when your life began you had committed no sin, and it is only a series of choices, some your own, and some forced upon you, which led you to your current allegiance. You still have more life. You still have more choices.
And I say to you, Ilmater forgives. Take your prowess, take your ambition, but don’t fight for slavery, fight for liberty.
This is what I would say, even as I resolve to oppose them.
I thought your words foolish once.
[A page has been inserted, cut to the same size as the journal]
It was your speech and Herran's song which stabbed me in my heart and made me unable to pretend.
To be comforted by you both, for pain I had caused myself, was part of... was not fair.
The days before, you visited me at the Theater. One of the last nights I spent there. You kept asking me if I trusted you.
I wanted to shout at the top of my lungs that I did not.
And that you should not trust me either.
Because I knew who you were, and knew you did not tell me.
Yet you kept insisting that I should trust you.
And then you told me who you are.
That you were with the Harpers.
But I knew already. You could not remember the dungeons.
I could remember. I did remember.I do remember.
I wept once more.
You tried to comfort me and I did not allow you to.
Again, you asked if I trust you.
You said that you looked upon me as an equal.
The first one who is not a servant, not a superior.
You tried to tell me you were.... just Ameris.
But what we were was a....
A Harper and a Zhent.
I think you knew.
Knew in your heart that I was wicked.
That I am vile.
I needed to meet with others, whilst tears were streaming down my face.
And I told you I could not.
But what I was telling you, was that I could not lie and pretend any more.
You took my hands, made me touch your holy symbol.
It was as if my hands burned.
I did not need it, the symbol, the faith. I needed you.
I made a choice then.
[Another page has been inserted, in the same rambling style]
I asked you to see me.
You swore you would let me walk away unharmed.
And I told you that I was sorry.
Sorry that I could not trust you.
Because of who you were. Are.
And I told you I was wrong to be so close.
And why you could not trust me.
A Harper and a Zhent cannot be friends.
Two forces, sworn to eradicate each other.
You were not content with that.
You kept asking -why-.
My words were not enough.
You told me I owed you, to tell you -why-.
I could not tell you.
Nothing I said was good enough.
You asked for your red cord.
I lied.
I needed it.
I wore it -every day-, since you died in Darkhold.
I spoke of what I had done to you in the dungeons.
To Cecilia.
You wept, and said there was no hate.
Only pain.
You made a promise.
That if I ever walked away and returned, you would be there.
You kept it.
Through all I had done...
The pain I caused you....
You were hurt that I would leave what we had behind.
A friendship.
Built on lies.
You said I did not care enough.
My dear.
I cared too much.
When friendship was all there could be.
And a creature of the night was worth more.
You still asked to meet.
For it to not be the last words exchanged.
[The last words, written with a trembling hand]
Thank you.
For keeping your promise.
Last edited by kleomenes on Tue Dec 16, 2014 1:25 am, edited 2 times in total.
